


Kicking Off

by Persiflager



Series: It Started Quietly [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 10:07:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg invites John round to watch the rugby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prequel to ['It's Oh So Quiet'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/453213).

John yawned hugely. He’d been dragged out of bed at five o’clock that morning to help investigate an ‘absolutely brilliant’ murder, which had so far consisted of sheltering from the rain in a shop doorway and watching Sherlock sniff things.

“Here.” Greg, looking unfairly bright-eyed and awake, thrust a polystyrene cup under his nose.

John blinked in confusion for a moment before taking it. “Thanks.” His fingers curled gratefully round the warmth and he took a sip of what turned out to be fairly horrible coffee. “Good grief, that’s _awful_.” He drank the rest down thirstily.

“Night shift special,” said Greg, squeezing into the doorway next to John. “You watching the Harlequins game on Sunday?”

It must have been colder than he thought, because John could feel the heat from Greg’s body spreading along his side. “Maybe. Last time I tried to watch a match at home, Sherlock kept predicting the passes.”

“Well, let me know if you fancy watching it at the pub. Or mine. Not to boast or anything, but I’ve got an absolutely massive telly.”

John’s mouth twitched. “Ah, but do you know how to use it?” His phone buzzed in his pocket before Greg had a chance to reply.

_Stop flirting with Lestrade. I need you to look at this corpse. S_

Warmth flooded his face. “Sorry, I’ve got to …” He waved in Sherlock’s direction.

Greg nodded. “Better you than me.”

John hunched his shoulders up against the rain and marched across to the far side of the alleyway.

“I wasn’t flirting,” he said defensively as he crouched down beside Sherlock. “I was being friendly, which I realise is a strange concept. Why would you even think-“

“John.” Sherlock held up a gloved hand in front of John’s face, then pointed downwards. “Corpse now. Tedious conversation later.”

...

John wasn’t gay. He’d never so much as kissed another man, let alone got up close and personal with one’s genitals outside of a medical setting. 

Both of these things were true, but they left a _hell_ of a lot of wiggle room.

...

Later came when they were in the cab on the way home after a long morning of poking, sniffing, rooting through rubbish bins, breaking, entering, shouting, running and showing off. Sherlock was looking out of the window, absorbed in his own thoughts, and John was drumming his fingers on the leather seat.

“I wasn’t flirting,” John burst out at last. “That, whatever you think you saw, was definitely not me flirting. I’m pretty sure I’d know about it if I was flirting with someone. And I wasn’t.”

Sherlock slowly swivelled his head round to stare at John. “Fine,” he said equably. “If you insist. You and Lestrade weren’t flirting with each other.” 

“Right,” said John with a decisive nod. “Wait, what do you mean ‘with each other’?”

Sherlock went back to gazing out of the window, the slight curve of his smile just about visible in the reflection, and John gave some serious thought to all the ‘absolutely brilliant’ ways in which he could murder Sherlock.

...

John was thirteen when he first found his gaze lingering over a boy in the showers after PE. He was _horrified_. His parents might have told him and Harry that there was nothing wrong with being gay, but they also said that broccoli was delicious and that John was average height for his age - John knew better. He’d got a girlfriend soon after that and had been unutterably relieved to find that breasts lived up to all the hype, and if the occasional boy caught his eye then he chalked it up to curiosity and adolescent hormones.

Things changed a little bit when John went to university and met someone who was actually, openly gay. Michael was tall, broad-shouldered and just a little bit camp. John saw him kissing his boyfriend outside the college bar one evening and stared, fascinated, thinking ‘you know what, if you wanted to kiss me, I don’t think I’d mind’. Michael never did but that didn’t stop John thinking about it, and he decided quietly that if the opportunity presented itself, he wouldn’t say no.

Except it never did. Funnily enough, no-one seemed interested in making a pass at a man who had a string of girlfriends and showed no sign of being interested in other men.

The army was even worse. There weren’t enough women around to distract John from fantasising about his mates, and he was still left with the problem that it’s very hard to signal to potential shags that you might be interested in exploring your sexuality with them while still making it clear to everyone else that you are absolutely, 100% straight. He thought he could guess a couple of men who were similarly inclined, but he couldn’t bring himself to take the risk. They never approached him. 

Now John was back in London and back in the same position as university – dating lovely, gorgeous women as much as he could, and casting occasional, secretive, longing looks that said ‘if it was you, I wouldn’t mind’ at men who weren’t psychic.

The thought gradually began to occur to him that perhaps the opportunity wasn’t going to present itself after all.

...

John managed to keep his curiosity in check until he’d showered and put the kettle on to boil. “So, Greg.”

“Mm,” said Sherlock without looking up from John’s laptop.

“Is he, um … does he… ” John cast around for the right question, eventually settling on “Greg’s not gay”. Sherlock wasn’t immune to the desire to correct people.

Sherlock tutted. “Really, John. And after that lovely chat we had last week about people’s right to privacy.”

John flushed with shame – good grief, it had really come to something when _Sherlock_ had to be the one to remind-

“Sometimes I think I should have you put in a museum,” said Sherlock with a fond glance. “The only known living specimen of the honourable Englishman.”

John was fairly sure that wasn’t meant as a compliment. “I have killed people, you know.”

“Nobody’s perfect. And yes, Lestrade’s not gay. Like you,” added Sherlock innocently.

John schooled his face into his best ‘I don’t know what you’re implying’ expression and turned round to make the tea. 

…

Oddly enough, it was Mike Stamford who finally pushed John to do something about it. (Good old Mike – introducing him to Sherlock and now this. John couldn’t work out if he was a guardian angel or an evil genius who liked to manipulate people around him for his own amusement.)

“Knock it off, would you?” he said later that evening, laughing, as John told him all the details that wouldn’t make it onto the blog. “Stop being so bloody brave, you’re making the rest of us look bad.”

John shook his head and drank his pint, thinking _I’m not brave, though. I’m a massive coward because I’m afraid to admit that sometimes I fancy men, and I’m just starting to realise how much I might have missed out on._

He went home shortly after that and found Sherlock slicing fingers on the kitchen table.

“Good night?”

Sherlock hummed non-committally.

John poured himself a glass of water and drank it slowly. He put the glass down by the side of the sink, contemplated doing the washing up, decided that was a procrastination too far and turned to look at Sherlock. “I’m bisexual.”

The silence that followed his statement had a curiously suspended quality, rather like the moment after a firing a gun when, for just a split-second, he was aware that the bullet had been fired but didn’t yet know what it had hit. Not that he was expecting Sherlock to react badly – _surely_ he knew already – but John was surprised to find his palms were sweating.

“Mm,” said Sherlock distractedly.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, you’re bisexual. You’re also short. Is this another thrilling round of ‘stating the obvious’?” 

John grinned at Sherlock’s back with lunatic glee.

...

John woke up the next morning with a strange feeling of lightness that took him a moment to identify. _Huh_. He’d finally done it. He’d tip-toed out of the closet and the world hadn’t imploded. The world had barely even noticed.

“I’m bisexual,” he told the ceiling. 

The world remained resolutely intact. John stretched out triumphantly and celebrated with a huge yawn. Now he could see why Harry had walked tall for a week after coming out at home. And thinking of Harry, should he tell her? John shuddered at the thought. She’d only make a big thing out of it, and he was _not_ going on a family trip to Gay Pride. Time enough for that conversation when (if) he was actually in a proper relationship with a man.

John dragged himself out of bed and downstairs for some breakfast. As he sat at the kitchen table, munching on some buttered toast and half-listening to Sherlock narrating his new chemistry experiment, he heard the muffled sound of his phone ringing.

After checking all the usual places – jacket pocket, desk, down the back of the sofa - he eventually found it hiding under a stained copy of the ‘Journal of Forensic Sciences’.

_Missed call: Greg Lestrade  
Three new messages_

It started ringing again and John answered immediately.

“Greg!” said John, far too enthusiastically. “Hello.”

“You got your phone back, then?”

John shot a suspicious glance at Sherlock. “Ye-es. What can I do for you?” 

“You can make me some coffee if you’re feeling so obliging,” called Sherlock.

“You’re. In. The. Sodding. Kitchen!” yelled John over his shoulder before turning his attention back to Greg. “Sorry about that.”

“S’alright. I was just calling to see if you were still up for watching the match tomorrow. I’ve got the extra channels figured out on the telly now.”

“Oh! Yes, definitely.”

“Three o’clock? Kick-off’s at half past. I’ll text you the address.”

“Three’s fine for me.”

“Great, see you then.” 

Greg rang off and John checked his received messages.

_Sherlock, give John his phone back._

_What, seriously?_

_Still on for the match tomorrow? Greg_

John scrubbed one hand over his face before checking his sent messages.

_BUSY, GO AWAY._

_BUSY, GO AWAY._

_BUSY, GO AWAY._

“Thanks mate,” he said, wandering back into the kitchen. “What were you using it for anyway?”

“Experiment.”

“That stopped being a good enough excuse three kettles ago.’”

Sherlock didn’t respond. John leant back against the kitchen counter and watched him for a moment.

“No, I’m not trying to sabotage your social life,” said Sherlock without looking up. He used the tongs to pick up a mysterious brown lump and dropped it into the beaker. “You’re perfectly capable of doing that yourself.

John pulled a face but didn’t dispute the point. The mixture turned a murkier shade of green and Sherlock clapped his hands together in excitement. “Finally!” He stood up and pushed his goggles back on his head. “I’m going to take a bath. Keep an eye on that and make sure it doesn’t boil over. “ 

“Mm.” John absent-mindedly spun his phone between his fingers.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. “Did you hear what I said, or were you too busy mooning over Lestrade?”

“I wasn’t _mooning_.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and John looked down at his hands.

“Oh.” He stood there for a moment, a comfortable denial poised on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed it down. “Nobody says ‘mooning’ anymore,” he said instead. “I do like him, though.”

Sherlock’s expression said ‘well, obviously’. John was very familiar with that expression.

“Are you going to be difficult about this?”

Sherlock looked mildly offended. “I’m never ‘difficult’.”

“No, you’re usually impossible.” 

Sherlock preened a little. 

John sighed. “Oh, go and have your bath.”

…

Greg’s flat was ten minutes from Waterloo station on a quiet, tree-lined road. John arrived just before three with a six-pack of beer that he’d spent far too long deliberating over at the nearby supermarket. Greg buzzed him in and he climbed up to the second floor.

“Ta,” said Greg taking the plastic bag off John’s hands. “Come in.” He was the most casual John had ever seen him, in worn t-shirt and tight jeans, and John was suddenly, acutely aware of how well Greg filled them out. John flexed his hand to distract himself, wincing as the blood rushed back into the grooves carved by the bag’s handles, and followed Greg inside.

The hall and kitchen were nice in a generic rented-flat sort of way - wood laminate floors, cream walls, IKEA furniture and enviably clean. From what John had picked up, Greg had moved in at short notice during the separation and hadn’t had time to sort out buying somewhere yet. Greg hadn’t talked much about the split, not even when they were drowning their sorrows. John only knew that the divorce had gone through a few months ago because Sherlock had made an off-hand comment at a crime scene and nearly got punched for his trouble.

“Nice place,” said John.

Greg shrugged. “It’s all right. Handy for work, at least. And there’s a good curry-house round the corner.” He put the beers away, poured them each a lager and led John through to the lounge where an enormous screen dominated the room.

“That,” said John, staring, “is a massive TV.” 

Greg laughed as he sat down on the black leather sofa. “Told you. It was my brother’s. He gave it to me so he’d have an excuse to buy an even bigger one, if you can believe it.”

“You’re kidding.” John sat down next to Greg and put his beer down on the coffee table. 

Greg shook his head and took a swig of his beer.

“Blimey.” John did likewise. They sat there in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the pre-match commentary. John let his gaze wander round the room. There was a small bookshelf filled with colourful paperbacks, a large stereo surrounded by CDs, a dining table covered in paperwork and a few family photos up on the wall. 

John couldn’t stop himself from looking back at Greg – worse than that, _looking_ at Greg. He looked almost indecently relaxed, with a beer in his hand and his legs spread wide. There was no sign that he was affected by the same tension that was thrumming through John – the sharp, almost tangible awareness that there was nothing to stop them touching each other right now, if they wanted.

And oh, how John wanted (it was the smile – broad and bright and just slightly dirty. And the voice, _jesus_ , it was bossy in all the right ways. And his pretty, pretty eyes, and his lovely big hands, and the way he bent over a pool table...) But he also liked Greg, and admired him. He didn’t know if Greg was interested in dating anyone else yet, let alone getting into something serious, and he didn’t want to risk making a move too soon and ruining his chances.

On the other hand, faint heart never won fair cop.

…

One hour and two beers later, John was still mulling it over. It hadn’t stopped him from joining Greg in shouting at the TV at crucial moments, or debating the more controversial referee decisions between themselves.

“Fuck off,” said Greg cheerfully. “No way was that a knock-on.”

“It bloody well was,” insisted John. Actually he had no idea if it was or wasn’t - he’d been too busy sneaking glances at Greg out of the corner of his eye.

“Wasn’t. Do you want some crisps?”

John shrugged. Greg levered himself off the sofa and headed to the kitchen, returning moments later with a couple of packets that he slung down on the table.

“There, don’t say I never give you anything.” He flung himself back down onto the sofa, closer to John than he had been so that there was less than an inch between their thighs, and flung one arm along the low back. “What did I miss?”

“Just ads,” said John distractedly, and he helped himself to a handful of crisps. Greg took a large swig of his beer and John watched his Adam’s apple bob. He glanced up to see Greg’s gaze fixed on him with lively interest. John flushed with embarrassment as he looked away, licking salt from his lips.

“Right,” he heard Greg say, followed by the clink of a glass being set down. The sofa cushions on his left shifted. John looked round just in time to see Greg’s bright eyes right in front of his, and then he closed his eyes automatically and leaned forward a little until he felt Greg’s warm, soft lips on his and fucking hell, they were kissing. Open-mouthed and wet and lovely, tasting of beer and ready-salted crisps, with stubble rasping his chin and Greg’s hand cradling the back of his head.

He reached out blindly and grabbed Greg’s side, holding it tight through the soft cotton.

“Thank fuck for that,” murmured Greg against John’s lips. “I thought you might punch me.”

“Assaulting a police officer,” panted John, and he couldn’t help a giggle bubbling up out of his mouth because honestly, this was ridiculous, wasn’t it?

“Shut up,” said Greg, holding John’s jaw with his free hand, and he kissed John firmly with slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue. This kiss held the promise of sex. John slid his hand under the edge of Greg’s t-shirt, sliding the palm flat against the warm skin underneath, feeling himself get hard.

There was a burst of noise from the TV and they broke apart.

“Sorry,” said Greg, breathing heavily. He grabbed the remote and turned the TV off before turning back to John with an embarrassed grin. “I’ve got to be honest, I’ve got no idea what the score is.”

John laughed, giddy with delight. “I’ve forgotten who’s playing.” He kissed Greg hungrily, without hesitation, leaning in with his whole body. Greg’s hands ran up and down his back, smoothing his sides, groping his arse, until he dug his fingers and _lifted_ , pulling John into his lap.

The new position brought into sharp focus the fact that John was kissing a man (and not just an experimental snog - kissing with _intent_ ). His legs were spread wide, Greg’s cock pressing insistently up against his balls and perineum, and Greg’s hands were _everywhere_ \- kneading his buttocks, stroking his back, his soft belly, and, oh _fuck_ , stroking his erection through the thick denim of his jeans.

Greg slid his hands up, pushing John’s t-shirt up around his armpits, and stopped kissing him just long enough to tug it over his head. John had a moment of panic – he wasn’t in great shape, he had scars, he wasn’t used to being looked at like this – but that went away when Greg hummed appreciatively and skimmed his hands over John’s chest.

“Lovely,” he said, rubbing his thumbs over John’s nipples, producing an odd blur of pleasure. John kissed him again before grabbing the hem of Greg’s t-shirt, pulling it off and throwing it over his shoulder onto the floor.

Greg’s chest was broad, muscled, lightly covered in dark hair that was coarse and strange to the touch when John, curious, ran his hands across it. Mirroring Greg’s actions, he tweaked the tight, hard nubs of his nipples gently which made Greg grunt and grab John’s hips, thrusting upwards. Heat pooled in John’s groin at the feeling of Greg’s erection between his legs.

“Do you want to have sex?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Greg, kissing John’s jaw, his ear, mouthing against his neck, his strong, warm hands gripping John tightly. “What do you fancy?”

“Would you fuck me?” 

Greg groaned. “Fuck, would I ever.” He cupped his hands under John’s arse, squeezed, and twisted around, lowering John down onto the sofa. The leather was smooth and cold against his back. Greg knelt over him, grinning, and unbuttoned John’s jeans.

“What are you grinning at?” asked John, more sharply than he’d intended. Greg deftly unzipped his fly, dug his fingers under the waistband of John’s pants, and dragged the whole lot down so that John was left stark naked and not knowing what to do with his hands.

“What do you think?” laughed Greg as he leant back to pull the tangle of clothes over John’s feet, along with his socks. “ _Sex_ , you muppet.” He squeezed John’s calf affectionately before leaping up off the sofa. “Half a tick.” John was left to contemplate the ceiling as he idly fondled his cock and balls. The thought occurred to him that he’d probably be willing to show up naked at Scotland Yard if it would put that expression on Greg’s face again.

Greg returned two minutes later with a Boots bag that he threw onto the coffee table. He unbuttoned his own jeans as he stood there, leering at John’s naked body, before dropping them and his underwear in one unselfconscious movement. Holy _fuck_. John stared at Greg’s hairy, muscular legs, his bush of salt-and-pepper pubic hair, his dark red balls dangling behind … his _cock_. Bloody hell, that was a good-looking cock. It jutted out from his body all stiff and proud, and looked _gorgeous_ , so much better than porn. John’s fingers flexed automatically with the urge to grab.

Greg climbed back onto the sofa and knelt between John’s legs, beaming. “Hello gorgeous.” 

He lay on top of John, warm and heavy, and took his time snogging John with deliberation and full, soft lips. John reached down and grabbed two good handfuls of Greg’s brawny arse and when Greg grunted and rolled his hips forward and his cock slid against John’s it was so, so close to sex that it took John’s breath away. John hauled him forward again, encouraging, and Greg rocked back and forth in a slow, dirty rhythm as he pressed loose kisses against John’s slack mouth and yes, _this_ , sex was abso-fucking-lutely happening right now.

“I thought you were going to fuck me,” said John shakily, using all his concentration to string the words together, pushing his hips up. He could feel sweat beading down his back, sticking him to the leather.

“In a minute.” Greg’s voice was low and maddeningly steady. “You in a rush?”

John gave up on words and shook his head. He let his eyes fall closed. Greg rutted indulgently against him, his stomach rubbing John’s cock with teasing friction as he panted into John’s ear. 

“Don’t worry, you’ll get a good seeing-to. Here, have a feel.” Greg took one of John’s hands off his arse and pulled it in between their bodies and onto his cock. John wrapped his hand round it automatically, his mouth suddenly dry at the warm, hard weight of it. He stroked up, running his thumb over the pronounced ridge and the wet slit, feeling it twitch and thicken as Greg gasped against him.

“ _Ah_ , steady.” John reluctantly let go as Greg sat back up, red-faced, and ran a hand through his hair. He pulled a small bottle out of the plastic bag, then tucked a hand under John’s left knee and hoisted so that his leg was hooked over the sofa back. With his other foot down on the floor, John was now thoroughly exposed. His stomach tightened with apprehension.

Greg noticed. “Been a while?” he asked, tearing open the plastic seal.

“You could say that,” said John cautiously. The bottle was obviously brand new, and he could see a box of condoms in the bag as well. Had Greg been thinking of John when he bought them? Had he planned for this? His pulse raced at the thought.

“Me too.” Greg looked down for a moment as he pumped a generous helping of lube onto the palm of one hand and used it to coat the fingers of the other. “Reckon it’s like riding a bike?”

“Are you – _ah_ \- calling me a bike?” John’s voice shot up as Greg casually fondled his bollocks, rolling them lightly in his big, slippery hand.

“I’ve heard stories. Nice cock,“ said Greg with a nod, wrapping his hand around it and stroking confidently. John sucked in a breath at the tight, slick feeling and looked down, mesmerised by the sight of the pink, shiny head of his cock going in and out of Greg’s tanned fist. 

Greg twisted his other hand round so that his slick fingers rested suggestively in the cleft of John’s arse. He rubbed them lightly over John’s hole, back and forth, before pushing one slowly in, noticeably thicker than any John had had inside him before. He couldn’t help a small moan escaping as pleasure fizzed up his spine – it had been far too long since he’d done this. 

“I’ve thought about this,” Greg confessed, husky-voiced, pressing kisses to John’s ear. “About you, like this.” He took his hand off John’s achingly hard cock and spread it flat on the sofa cushion by John’s waist, shifting his weight to lean on it as he worked his finger in and out at an unhurried pace. 

“Yeah?” John breathed in through his nose, shakily. “Tell me.” His shoulders and stomach ached from the strain of holding himself up on his elbows, but he couldn’t bear to move away from Greg’s mouth.

“Just, having you. How much you’d like it. The sounds you’d make.” Greg eased a second finger in and John _whimpered_. “Fuck, _yes_ , like that.”

Greg moved with his whole body, his cock smearing stickily against John’s thigh, his tongue thrusting John’s mouth at the same steady pace as his fingers in John’s arse until he finally withdrew, leaving John feeling strangely empty, and sat back up. John watched as Greg rolled a condom carefully onto his cock and slicked himself before standing up. 

“Hop up,” he said, holding out his hand.

John stared at him a moment, dazed with arousal. Greg’s eyes crinkled in amusement. He took John’s hand, pulled him upright, and led him round to the back of the sofa.

“Here,” he said, putting one hand in the small of John’s back. “Bend over.” 

“ _Oh_ ,” said John in an exhale of understanding and whole-hearted approval. “Right, yes. Good idea.” He rolled his shoulders, stretching them out, before bending over and planting his hands firmly on the seat cushion. 

Greg nudged his feet. “Wider.” John obeyed, skin humming with anticipation, stomach skimming the back of the sofa.

“That’s it.” Greg ran his hands up John’s thighs before cupping his arse appreciatively and spreading his cheeks apart. There was a strange, blunt pressure as Greg pressed his cock against John’s arsehole and then, oh god, _in_. Breathing with deliberate steadiness, John tried to relax. His cock was half-hard and unsure.

“Christ, you’re tight,” said Greg, breathing heavily, gripping John’s hips. “Are you alright?” He slid a little further in and John felt a diffuse pleasure flicker in his groin.

“Yes,” he rasped. “Yes, keep going.”

Greg rocked patiently in and out, working a little further in each time. John closed his eyes and let the discomfort fade and ease as he stretched to accommodate Greg, concentrating on the growing arousal in his belly, vaguely aware of his cock filling back out. 

“There, _ah_.” Greg’s groin came flush with John’s arse as he bottomed out, his thighs pressed against John’s. He stayed still for a moment. John tilted his pelvis a little, experimentally, and Greg sank in a fraction of an inch further with a surprised groan.

“Fucking _hell_ ,” said John quietly. “You have _no_ idea how good that feels.”

Greg laughed breathlessly, sounding relieved. “Yeah?” 

John rocked ever so slightly forward and back onto Greg’s cock, electricity shooting down the front of his thighs. “Jesus, _yes_. Go at whatever speed you like, I am _fantastic_.” He flexed his fingers against the leather seat and braced himself happily.

Greg swept his big, lovely hands up and down John’s back, trailing his fingers until John’s whole back tingled. “Yeah, you are.” He started thrusting in and out in slow, shallow strokes, and any response John could have made was chased out of his mind by nerve endings lighting up. Each forward thrust pushed John up onto his toes, shifting more of his weight down through his arms until he wasn’t sure if his feet were touching the ground any more. Blood rushed to his head, intensifying the waves of sensation that rolled through him, and he let inarticulate moans fly freely until his throat was hoarse from shouting.

“Christ,” panted Greg, speeding up. “Oh, _Christ_. I’m nearly there, are you close?”

John’s entire body felt like it was on the verge of coming, poised on the top of a tidal wave. “Yes,” he croaked, and he felt Greg’s fingers wrap around his cock, tugging him over the edge until his orgasm hurtled through his body and he came crashing down, soaked through with pleasure.

The aftershocks kept booming, sweet and achey, as Greg fucked him with rough jerks until he thrust deep and trembled and groaned. “Ah, _fuck_.” John felt Greg fall forward, resting his forehead on John’s sweaty back as he heaved in deep breaths, legs shaking. He stayed there for several long, humid seconds until eventually pressing a soft kiss to each of John’s shoulder-blades and pulling out.

John couldn’t help making a small noise of disappointment. Greg chuckled in response and padded softly away to take care of the condom. John gradually straightened up, stretching out his muscles and revelling in the beautiful, bone-deep ache. He turned round and perched on the back of the sofa, weak-kneed and dizzy.

“Alright there?” Greg wandered back in, naked, beaming and looking distinctly mussed.

John let out a long breath and nodded. “Jesus.” There was a slight draft from the kitchen and he catalogued the sensations as the air blew over his skin – roughened, tingling lips and face and neck. Sweat drying on his back and thighs. Lube sticky between his buttocks, come drying in patches on his cock and stomach and hip. 

Greg insinuated himself in between John’s legs and rested his hands on John’s waist. “Don’t know about you,” he murmured, lips pressed against John’s temple. “But I could really do with a shower.”

“Mm.”John’s head was pleasantly full of static. If Greg was hinting that John should leave, then he’d have to wait til John’s legs were working properly again.

“Do you want to stay for a bit? We can watch the rest of the game on catch-up, get a curry after.” 

John yawned against Greg’s chest. “Ok.”

The rest of the evening – rugby, beer, blazingly hot curry, more beer - was just like earlier, except that they squished up close on the sofa and Greg kept kissing John in passing, almost absent-mindedly. John reluctantly decided it was time to go home when he fell asleep on Greg’s shoulder for the third time. He was half-tempted to stay, but had a suspicion that he might have a bit of a panic when he woke up in the morning.

“Night, then” he said, digging his hands into his jacket pockets.

Greg kissed him again before letting go. “Night.” He looked as if he was about to say something else, but didn’t.

“Thanks for having me.”

Greg snorted and ran his hand through his hair, not taking his eyes off John. “Any time.”

John left before he could say something he’d regret. He was still grinning when he got home, and not even Sherlock’s eye-roll could wipe the smile off his face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Five minutes earlier**

Sherlock knelt in a puddle and pressed his nose up against the corpse’s mouth.

“Aniseed! Interesting. Check which dishes on the menu contained fennel, and ask-“

He stopped, conscious of a distinct lack of movement behind him, and looked around. What on earth was John doing all the way over there? And why was he looking at Lestrade like - _oh!_

Yes, that might work.

Obviously it would be much better for everyone concerned – him, John, the female population of London – if John would abandon his romantic endeavours and concentrate on assisting Sherlock. He’d thought John had come round to this way of thinking several times now but it had always proved to be a temporary period of sanity in between mourning one relationship and pursuing the next, both of which states were associated with an intolerable degree of distraction and emotional instability . That being the case, Sherlock had reluctantly concluded that a long-term relationship would be the most acceptable alternative.

Lestrade would be ... adequate. He already knew and tolerated Sherlock, and would no desire to move to a suburb with John and raise tiny, sticky children. Professionally, the increased access to information should outweigh any need to take better care hiding the various illegal substances, weapons and activities in the flat (though Lestrade was perfectly capable of turning a blind eye when it suited him).

The fact that a relationship with Lestrade would force John to acknowledge his barely concealed bisexuality was another point in his favour (honestly, for all the time John spent complaining about Sherlock’s lack of tact, he was wilfully blind to the number of things Sherlock _didn’t_ say).

Sherlock looked at them again, squinting against the rain. John was unusually relaxed, with his shoulders dropped and his torso twisted towards Lestrade, and the smile on Lestrade’s face made him look ten years younger.

Yes, that could work. They’d need help, of course, given their appalling track records, but Sherlock was willing to give them the occasional nudge in the right direction.

Starting now.

He picked up his phone, sent a carefully worded text, and waited.


End file.
